


A Fair Bargain

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Gangbang, Group Sex, Mild Humiliation, Multi, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Skyrim Kink Meme, Thieves Guild, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: A set-up leads to more than Jal and Cynric bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a prompt on the Skyrim Kink Meme that requested dub-con/non-con gangbang roleplay. If you read my other story where Jal makes a brief cameo, this one takes place much earlier in the timeline.

When Jal first regains consciousness, he doesn't think much of anything. His head feels fuzzy and disconnected from the rest of his body, and his mouth is dry. Shadows dance in his vision, obscuring what little he can see in the dim light filtering through the window. _Moonlight... nighttime. Late. Too late._ The floor beneath him is alternately cold and scratchy, but that hardly seems to matter through the haze enveloping him. _Straw?_

Cold water splashes his face, and he yelps indignantly as it trickles down his cheeks and chin. His elbow jostles against something warm and solid, eliciting a groan. He knows that voice. _Cynric._

"Time to wake up," someone says from above them, and there's a clatter as the now-empty bucket hits the ground and rolls away. 

 _Oh shit,_ Jal thinks, still not fully conscious, and tries to move his arms. They refuse to come apart. Something coarse digs into the soft flesh at his wrists. Torches flare to life, forcing him to squint. He swears under his breath, and then there's the unpleasant tromp of boots surrounding him. He can't make out faces, blinded by the light as he is.

"Well, well. Look at this, lads," a different voice drawls. "We've caught ourselves a pair of rats."

"Good thing your contact isn't completely useless," the first voice says, sounding satisfied. "Finally, some information worth the coin."

 _Shit shit shit._ Jal kicks his feet out experimentally, only to find that his ankles are tied together as well. He rocks onto his side and tries to sit up, but loses his balance almost immediately. His shoulder collides with Cynric's ribcage, and his fellow thief jolts awake with a grunt. One of the guards laughs, a low, cold bark. Jal sneers up at them. He can't make out anything besides a circle of dark silhouettes looming over them, backlit by a flickering pool of orange and gold.

"Hold on, let me get a look at this one," the same voice says, and a booted foot prods his shoulder, forcing him to roll onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling while the guards examine him silently.

"So, this is the Dragonborn's pet. I have to say, I was expecting more."

"Untie me and I'll be sure to impress you," Jal says, before the words sink in. The guards all laugh this time, and the one pinning him down chuckles. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The pressure on his shoulder lets up.

"Yes, we know the Dragonborn and your Guildmaster are one in the same. No need to look so surprised."

"If it makes you feel any better, your 'client' paid us a pretty penny to catch you red-handed." This comes from the guard standing over Cynric, who's face-down on the flagstone, tied wrist and ankle in a similar fashion and gagged to boot. She has one foot between his shoulder blades, and holds him there easily, hands on her hips. He doesn't struggle. He just stares at Jal over the gag, nostrils flared and brows drawn together. "I thought it was going to be harder than this."

"Sorry to disappoint." Jal offers up his most winsome smile, eyes darting from one end of the room to the other. He still isn't sure where they are - it doesn't look like a typical cell, it's too big - and he counts five or six bodies in total. Now that his eyes have adjusted, he can see they're all wearing the standard quilted doublets and hide armor typical of the Rift's guard, along with masked steel helms that conceal their respective identities handily. _Nice touch._ He wishes he could see their eyes. Not being able to tell where the enemy is looking presents a disadvantage. He rolls back onto his stomach and struggles to his knees, not without some difficulty. They allow it, seemingly content to let him exert himself.

"Oh, I'm sure you are." The guard looks down at Cynric's prone form and tilts her head, considering. "Well, we have them. Question is, what do we do with them?"

"We could leave 'em here to rot."

"Or string them up. Only good thief's a dead one," another guard chimes in, barely-concealed laughter distorting his voice. 

"Or, you could let us go," Jal says helpfully. "Since they already paid you for the job. We'll never darken your doorstep again, you have my word."

"What good is the word of a thief?" The guard standing over him asks, tone dripping with scorn. "You'd steal from your own mother if you thought it'd get you somewhere."

"Oh, no. Not my mother. She'd cut your throat if you so much as looked at her sideways. Why, one time, we had a pair of would-be robbers come through who - "

"Shor's balls, do you ever shut up? No, don't answer that." The guard crouches so his face is level with Jal's. Jal chews the inside of his cheek. It's disconcerting, having something eyeless study him with such intensity. He chances a glance at Cynric, who's laying still, watching the proceedings. He's sweaty, but otherwise calm. Jal winks at him. The guard's hand shoots out without warning and grabs his jaw, gloved fingers digging into his flesh, forcing Jal's gaze back in his direction. "You're a cheeky little fetcher and I'd love nothing more than to tan your miserable hide until you howl for mercy," he says, voice low. "But we went to a lot of trouble to catch you, so I say we have some fun. What do you all think?"

The rest of the guards make noises of gleeful assent, and Jal's stomach flip-flops uneasily as they all crowd closer at once, like wolves circling a wounded deer. He resists the urge to shrink back. The guard holding his jaw lets him go and stands, while the guard keeping Cynric pinned steps aside and motions to the man next to her - he's easily the tallest by a full head and shoulders.

"Help me with him." 

At these words, Cynric suddenly seems to come to life and tries to thrash away, spitting muffled curses through his gag. They ignore him, the man stooping to grab his upper arms while the woman seizes the collar of his jerkin, and together they wrestle him to his knees in front of Jal. She slides her hand into his tangled hair and pulls his head back with a hissed warning to keep still, then yanks the spit-soaked gag from between his teeth. His eyes meet Jal's, pupils wide, white showing around the edges, and there's something in his expression Jal can't read. "Don't make me have to put the gag back in," the guard warns him. His lip curls, but he remains silent.

"Here's how this is going to work," The ringleader (as Jal is beginning to think of him) says, infuriatingly calm. "If the two of you cooperate, then we'll let you go once we've had our fill, and say you never showed up. If you don't... well." He trails off, the implicit _or else_ hanging in the air between them. "Understood?"

If it had been just himself in danger, Jal might have spit on the man's boots, defiant to the end. He might have done a great many things - all of them foolish, to be sure, but none cowardly. He's faced worse than a handful of power-hungry prison guards. But it's not just his own skin he's trying to preserve. His gaze flicks to Cynric once more, then back to the ringleader hovering over him expectantly.

"Understood."

"I'm not so sure that you do," the man says mildly. "Understand, that is. Say, 'yes sir'."

Jal grits his teeth, inhales hard through his nose. "Yes sir." His pride rankles as he spits out the words, but there's something else mixed up in there too, some slithery, undefinable feeling that wraps itself around him and makes him squirm, shifting in place on his knees.

"Very good." The guard steps back, and this seems to be some unspoken signal, because the rest of them surround him, cutting off his view of Cynric. Someone grabs the back of his neck, holding him still, while another pair of nimble hands set to work undoing the buckles on his cuirass. They take their time, fingertips caressing every inch of skin as it's revealed to the cool air, peeling away the leather with an agonizing slowness, and all the while his stomach coils with a curious mix of anticipation and dread. He bites his lip to stifle a whimper as the hands slide from his chest to the waistband of his breeches and back up again, stopping so thumbs can rub his nipples in lazy circles. There's a low chuckle in his ear, and he shudders.

"Don't worry, lad, you'll be warm again soon enough." 

Jal opens his mouth, but the guard pinches his nipples gently, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, and the retort dies on his lips. "We've got something better for you to do with that pretty mouth than sass us."

The thicket of legs in front of him separates, and he sees Cynric now, struggling in vain as his breeches are yanked down unceremoniously, baring his half-hard cock for all to see. It twitches against his thigh as the guards all jeer and whistle, and Jal stares at him, wide-eyed. Cynric turns his face away, ears red. The female guard standing behind him laughs cruelly and fists her hand in his shaggy dark hair, forcing him to look back at Jal.

"Don't get shy on us now, sweetheart."

"Fuck you," he snaps, blushing creeping down his neck to his chest, and she just laughs again, ruffling his hair as if he were a pet that had just performed some particularly clever trick. Jal stares at the long column of his throat, stained pink with embarrassment (and maybe something else entirely), at the thatch of dark curls between his thighs, and suddenly his own breeches seem too constricting. He swallows hard, once. The guard groping him practically purrs at that, the vibration rumbling low in his chest as he digs his fingertips into Jal's chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath his palms. 

"I think he likes the look of his friend in this state."

"I don't," Jal protests. Nobody pays him any mind, but he does earn another tweak to his nipples, making him inhale roughly. 

"Makes it easier then, dunnit?" The biggest guard rumbles, arms folded over his massive chest. "Have 'em get on with it."

"He's right," another of the guards pipes up from off to the side, her lilting voice sharp with impatience. "We were promised a show."

"Fair enough," the ringleader says, sounding amused. He nods at the man holding Jal. The hands disappear, and there's a drag of rope against his wrists and ankles as he's untied. His relief is short-lived as he's shoved on all fours, and the man jerks his head in Cynric's direction. "Crawl." Jal hesitates, and receives a swat on the ass for his troubles. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it does make him jump, breath hitching. "I won't tell you again. Crawl." 

He crawls.

The stone floor is unforgiving beneath his knees and cold against his palms, and Cynric looks down at him, mouth agape, as if he can't quite comprehend what's happening. He flashes a quick smile up at his guildmate, trying to look reassuring even as his stomach twists with uncertainty. Cynric's cock twitches again, so close to Jal's lips that he could kiss it if he moved even a hair closer, and the head is flushed red and shiny-wet. Jal's breath comes just a little faster, and the guard holding Cynric upright leans close, whispering in his ear.

"He looks pretty down there, doesn't he? He'll look even prettier with his mouth wrapped around your cock. You just have to ask him nicely." Cynric's reply is little more than a stifled gasp and the barest shake of his head. The guard sighs and runs her gloved fingers through his hair, combing it out of his eyes. "Don't make us do this the hard way."

"Ask him to suck you," the ringleader says from somewhere behind Jal, deadly soft in the cramped, charged atmosphere. "Make it convincing and we won't leave you here to die when we're done."

The air itself is vibrating around Jal, he can feel it, crackling like it does moments before he calls lightning to his fingertips, but no one's using a spell. His muscles are tense and his breath comes in soft pants, too loud in the quiet; they can all hear him and he has nowhere to hide. The thought shouldn't make him harder, but it does. Cynric must see the look in his eyes shift, because his own widen imperceptibly, and he shifts his hips, jutting them forward without any apparent realization. The tip of his cock just barely grazes Jal's lower lip, and they both shiver a little.

"Please - " It comes out hoarse, and he coughs, licks his lips and tries again. "Please suck me off."

"There, 'e asked you nicely," one of the other guards says, and nudges Jal's thigh with the toe of his boot. "Best get to it."

"No hands," the guard behind Cynric adds, tone poisonously sweet. Faced with no other choice, Jal braces his hands against the flagstone and opens his mouth.

Cynric tastes faintly of salt and musk, but it's not a bad thing, and Jal is no stranger to finding pleasure in the company of other men. The guards crowd them on all sides, an unspoken agreement, an oppressive crush of bodies. Jal closes his eyes, but he can still feel their gaze boring into him as one while he takes Cynric between his lips, coaxing him to full hardness. Cynric is the one being sucked off, but Jal feels disconcertingly naked, and his body seems to have its own ideas about how to respond to that. His own cock is hard and sticky, trapped in his smalls against his thigh. He flutters his tongue across the tip, and the other man groans low in his chest, hips snapping forward helplessly. Jal's breath falters. He wants to hear that again.

He licks and sucks and nibbles delicately, taking his time, lavishing attention on the hot, sensitive skin until Cynric is hard as steel and throbbing, heavy against his tongue. He's starting to lose himself in it, despite his attempts to remind himself _why_ he's even doing this in the first place, and he's sure he could have spent the next hour simply kissing the prominent vein running along the underside of Cynric's shaft while listening to him pant, but their audience has other ideas. Rough fingers bury themselves in his locs.

"What are you, a virgin? Do it properly." And then, humiliatingly, he's choking as his head is shoved down and Cynric's cock hits the roof of his mouth, clumsy and unexpected. He tries to pull away, acting on instinct, but the hand holds him there for a few long seconds before yanking him back up. His mouth makes a wet, obscene noise as Cynric slides free, and then he's gasping for breath, spit smeared across his lips and dripping down his chin. Even more humiliatingly, he's still hard, and Cynric's cock presses against his cheek, leaving wet smears of pre-come there as they both try to catch their breath.

"Jal - " Whatever Cynric was about to say it cut off abruptly as the guard behind him claps a hand over his mouth, her fingers digging into his jaw.

"You don't get to talk. Not unless we say so."

"Now," the man with his hand in Jal's hair says - he's the same one who stripped him earlier, Jal is pretty sure, with hands as clever as they are cruel - grip tightening for a split second, "be a good lad and put on a proper show. You don't want us getting bored." He lets go, mercifully, and gives Jal a shove that nearly sends him sprawling onto the floor face-first. He catches himself, heat flaring in his gut, and bites his lower lip. _I can do this._ We _can do this._

The way he swallows his friend's cock this time is frantic and messy, too sloppy to be good, but no one cares. They just want to watch him humiliate himself in his eagerness, in the way he shifts on his knees and presses his thighs together to keep his own hips from thrusting involuntarily while he lets Cynric fuck his throat. The guard lets go of Cynric's mouth to strip off her gloves and toy with his nipples, sharp nails grazing the sensitive flesh, and between the heat of Jal's mouth and the long, cool fingers on his chest, Cynric is soon reduced to little more than a vacant, overwhelmed mess, eyes glazed over and cheeks pink as soft whimpers fall from his lips.

"You want to come, don't you?" The guard says low in Cynric's ear, dragging her nails lightly over his chest. "Go on, tell your friend that you want to come in that hot little mouth of his." 

"Gods, Jal, I'm so close," Cynric pants, and Jal lets him slide partway out so he can tongue the head of his friend's cock, tracing crude patterns around it. He wants Cynric to come, and somewhere along the line it had ceased to be just a performance. "Can I?" The guard interrupts them with a shake of her head.

"Oh, no you don't." She reaches down and wraps her hand around the base of his cock, pulling it free of Jal's eager mouth. He whimpers, and Jal tries not to whine right along with him. "Not yet." She releases him with an idle squeeze, and turns her attention to Jal. "You're getting off on this as much as he is, aren't you? What a slut."

"Well, if 'e wants to be used, we ought to oblige 'im." This comes from the guard who'd nudged him toward Cynric. There's a distinct leer in his voice as he takes a step forward and claps their ringleader on the shoulder. "'e's practically begging for it."

"I'm not," Jal says weakly. Someone behind him slides a boot between his thighs and kicks his legs apart with one swift motion, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to pitch him face-down on the ground, and he's too surprised to catch himself.

They pounce on him then, two pairs of hands peeling his breeches down over his ass and thighs while a third crouches down and pins his wrists out in front of him. He loses sight of Cynric and he struggles, but he has no leverage, and his cock springs free and slaps wetly against his stomach. Someone whistles and palms his ass, kneading the supple flesh as they spread him wide for all to see.

He tries to pull away but he can't move, the grip on his wrists tightening. His face burns - he's on _display,_ completely exposed and at their mercy - but there's an edge to it, a shuddery sweet feeling that makes him ache all over at the same time, his neglected cock twitching. 

"Oh yeah, he hates this."

"Like I said earlier," The ringerleader chuckles. "The word of a thief means nothing." This time, there's irons instead of rope around his ankles, and padded leather cuffs that go around his wrists, and he's held in place by a warning hand digging into the soft skin of his rear and another pair of hands grabbing his hips. Then they all step away, leaving him trussed up like a centerpiece on his hands and knees in the middle of the floor, mostly naked and entirely turned on despite himself.

He watches helplessly as Cynric is pushed onto his back and left to sprawl on the cold stone floor, his cock still half-hard against his stomach. Their eyes meet for a split second, but then callused fingers slide between Jal's thighs to cup his balls before skimming along the underside of his length, and he has to close his eyes, shivering at the unexpected touch. "This hard and we've barely touched you? My, my." The hand withdraws, and he can't stop his hips from jerking, instinctively trying to follow, trying to get _more._ "One of you, hand me that cloth."

There's some shuffling around behind him, followed by soft footsteps, and one of them crouches in front of him. "Look at me." Jal cranes his head up and stares directly into the ringleader's mask, hoping he looks fearless. Dread and anticipation war in his chest. "Now." The man's voice is soft, deceptively pleasant. "The little show you two put on was good, but we've decided that there's something else we'd rather have. So we made some adjustments to the rules."

"You can't do that!" Cynric protests. "You said we could go if we cooperated and put on a good show!"

"I never said that. I said we wouldn't leave you here to rot when we're done. And we are far from done." The man waves a hand in his direction. "Someone give him something to do with his mouth besides make stupid comments."

"I can think of something," the other female guard says. She's mostly been watching up until now from against the nearest wall, arms crossed, but now she unfolds them and steps forward, stretching them over her head. "One of you grab him for me."

The biggest guard reaches down and hauls Cynric to his feet. Jal's vision is abruptly cut off as cloth loops over his head and cinches snugly, reducing his world to one of shadows and light. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge it, but a gloved hand clamping down on the back of his neck halts any further attempts.

"Know what's going to happen next? We're going to fuck you," the ringleader says in his ear, every word a burning caress against his skin. "We're going to use you until we're done with you, and judging from the state of you, you're going to enjoy every second of it." Jal wants to curse him, spit at him and struggle, but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth. "And if you can make all of us come before you do, we'll let you go."

_Oh, gods._ Theoretically, that shouldn't be a problem. He's not supposed to be getting off on this. Unfortunately, his body didn't get the message, because he feels feverishly warm even with the cool night air against his skin and he's desperate for some kind of friction against his cock. He breathes in deeply, once. Something hard and cool presses against his cock - someone's boot, maybe - pushing it against his stomach, and he huffs, testing his luck by rubbing himself against it. The boot disappears, and he catches a whimper between his teeth before it escapes.

"Start getting him ready," a voice says, sounding very far away, and before he has time to wonder who she's talking to, warm breath floods across the spot just behind his balls, sending goosebumps rippling across his skin. And then there's a tongue lapping at him, hesitant, and he jumps, swearing under his breath as stubble scrapes across the delicate skin there. Something bumps against his mouth, catching on his lower lip before pressing in, and he's obliged to open his mouth further before he chokes on it. This cock isn't quite as big as Cynric's, but it's thick, and its owner is determined to make thorough use of him. He groans around it as the tongue on his arse traces little whorls on his flesh, more confident with each passing stroke.

"I think he likes that," the other female guard says, coldly amused. There's a smattering of laughter in the background.

"Do it like you mean it," someone else rumbles, and Jal realizes hazily that this must have been their way of shutting Cynric up. The knowledge that it's _Cynric's_ mouth on such an intimate part of his body - Cynric, the guildmate he occasionally jerked himself to during quiet nights in the cistern, and yet had never so much as kissed - sends a thrill through him, hot and heady. The fact that he can't see anything and has no leverage doesn't detract from it, and he's left to wriggle and choke off undignified little whimpers at the unfamiliar sensation of being rimmed while having his throat fucked.

Luckily, the man in question doesn't seem to expect much in the way of participation - he simply puts one heavy hand on the back of Jal's head and holds him still, rocking into him at a steady, unhurried pace. Cynric does something with his tongue that has Jal seeing white behind his eyelids, heat pooling deep in his gut, and it's all starting to feel _too_ good, so he wraps his lips around the length in his mouth as best he can and sucks fervently, trying to focus on something else.

The guard makes a pleased sound deep in his chest and presses the pad of his thumb to the corner of Jal's mouth, dragging it down to his jawline, smearing a thin line of spit across his cheek. "Proper cockslut, this one." He punctuates this observation with a long, slow thrust into Jal's mouth, the tip nudging against his palate, and Jal sucks harder, eager to get at least one of them off.

"Hey, don't come yet. I want a turn before you get him all sloppy."

"Same here."

The man fucking Jal's mouth grunts, but ultimately pulls his cock free, and more spit drips down Jal's chin. He wants to wipe it away, but his hands are cuffed and stretched out in front of him, so he's forced to tolerate it. He must look a wanton mess, mouth lolling open, hips in the air as someone licks him open. The thought is less unpleasant than it should be. "Fine, have at him."

"Ladies first."

Cynric presses closer, chin digging into him a little as he licks and sucks at the tender skin, just this side of sore from all the attention, before starting to press the tip of his tongue in. Jal's stomach clenches up, and he can't help it, he moans and his hips jut backwards, seeking more. Cynric's tongue pushes a little deeper, almost teasing, and Jal moans louder, surprised. He can't remember the last time anyone did this to him, and it's got him near dripping on the flagstone.

Suddenly he senses shadow in his peripheral, and smooth skin brushes his cheek. A surprisingly soft hand wraps around his chin, guides him forward, and she smells like musk and cinnamon; he moves forward experimentally with his nose and lips alike, trying to work out his position. She lets go of his chin and shifts forward, exhaling breathily as his tongue finds her clit.

She apparently doesn't need much from him either, holding his head still while she grinds herself against his tongue, slick smearing across his cheeks and chin. Cynric gives one last lick with the flat of his tongue, and then his mouth is gone, leaving Jal to shudder as cool air rushes over his wet, exposed skin.

"Gods, don't fucking move," the woman rubbing herself off on his tongue groans, pressing his face deeper between her thighs. At the same time, something slick and blunt presses against his hole, rubbing lazy circles there, and he whimpers as it pushes into him with one unrelenting motion.

Hands descend on him, more hands than he can keep track of in his current state; they slide under him to palm his chest and hips, squeeze and rub at him, nails dragging over his nipples and down the curve of his spine. He writhes and they slap his ass and grip his thighs, spreading him wider while someone shoves a second finger into him and pumps them lazily, stretching him until he bucks his hips back again. The thighs on either side of his head seize up, and a rush of warmth floods his mouth as their owner shudders and comes soundlessly.

He gasps for air when he finally lets him go, licking his lips. She pats his cheek, and then she's gone. Someone else - the other female guard - takes her place almost instantly, and he buries his face against her with a stifled moan as the fingers inside of him press up and another set of fingers wraps around his shaft.

"Who's first?"

"I think his friend should get him all warmed up for us." The hand around his cock squeezes a bit, slides up and around the head in an agonizingly slow circle, and he rocks into it despite himself. The hand disappears almost instantly, leaving him shuddering.

"Hey. Pay attention," the woman says. She plants her boot-clad heel against his shoulder, metal cool against the side of his neck. She's more demanding than the other two, and more exacting. He tries to keep up with her instructions - to the left, a little higher, no, in circles, yes that's more like it, now suck - as the fingers in his arse stroke and thrust in a maddening, unpredictable rhythm, expertly avoiding the spot that always makes him see stars if it's touched just right. It's frustrating, and it's alarming that he's enjoying being frustrated. They suddenly withdraw, and he surges forward, fluttering his tongue against her clit, interspersed with slow, broad strokes with the flat of his tongue. Her thighs, clamped against his ears, tremble, and he can barely hear her stifled growl as she comes.

She lets him go after a moment, still shaking a little bit, and he almost feels smug, but then the first cock sinks into him without warning and he momentarily forgets how to think at all. Cynric seems so much bigger than he'd looked earlier in that moment, his thighs flush against Jal's. "Not bad," the guard says softly, and then she's gone too.

"Sorry Jal," Cynric whispers, and his hands come to rest warm on Jal's hips. They must have untied him, Jal thinks muzzily, and slumps a little, resting his forehead against the cool stone below him. The first thrust already has him panting, filling him up in just the right way, just this side of too much. Someone grabs his ponytail and yanks his head back up, shoves their cock in while he's mid-gasp.

Precome floods his mouth as the man tugs his foreskin back slightly, rubbing the wet head of his cock against Jal's tongue. His jaw is already starting to ache, but he tries to relax his throat and take it, even as the brutally fast pace leaves him sucking in air through his nose and squirming, contrasting harshly with Cynric's slow, gentle treatment of him. His toes curl in his boots as they thrust in tandem, Cynric's cock dragging across that spot and making him whimper.

The guard laughs and cups a heavy hand around the back of his neck, pressing closer. "You'd better swallow."

He tries, but some of it slides hot over his lips and down his chin when the man pulls his still-hard cock free. Cynric's control starts to slip, and he ruts against Jal sloppily, fingertips digging into his hips. Someone else's cock rubs against his cheek, and Jal turns his head and takes it in his mouth before they get impatient with him, bracing himself against the other thief's movements.

The rest start touching him again indiscriminately, keeping him guessing. They rub themselves against his flank and the dip in his waist while hands, a seemingly endless parade of hands torment him and he's starting to feel drunk on this, on every slap, every caress of his already overstimulated flesh, his breath coming in ragged, staccato bursts. Without warning, Cynric pulls out, leaving him feeling strangely empty, and seconds later, something hot spatters against the curve of his ass. 

They don't give him a chance to recover. The dick rubbing against his hip slides back and then into him with a relieved groan, even thicker, making him yelp. "Maybe we should just keep him anyway."

"I'm inclined to agree," the man leisurely fucking his mouth says, just the barest strain in his voice. 

"If he comes before we say so," the ringleader chuckles, "we will."

He loses track after that, how many times they use him. He's strung along and wrung out, kept on the razor-thin edge where denial becomes a pleasure in and of itself, brought to the brink time and time again only to be left moaning and struggling uselessly as his salvation recedes once more, just out of reach. They push and pull him, force his mouth and fill his arse, and never once give him a chance to protest, no matter how hard he might try. He can't even tell if he likes it or hates it anymore, but he needs it to keep going, and prays they won't just leave him unfulfilled when they're done.

Between rounds of sucking cock, both of the women take a second turn after splashing the come off his face with a mug of cool water, and the man fucking him during comes on his lower back with a groan. None of them have come in him yet, preferring instead to spill themselves across his arse and the small of his back (or, in one case, on his face in tandem with the man using his mouth - Jal's just grateful that they didn't get any on the blindfold). He's ashamed that the thought of their come marking him, dripping down his thighs makes his cock even harder, and in turn the shame itself makes him throb, hot and dirty in the pit of his stomach. His breath comes out high and reedy through his nose as whoever's taking another turn with his mouth pulls out and rubs the head of his cock all over Jal's parted lips.

"Had enough, lad?" Someone says, breath ghosting across his ear. "Say so and we'll let you come."

"No," he gasps, "No, no - "

And then the guard slides back into his mouth and silences him, rocks into him until Jal's nose is practically buried in coarse hair and the thick head is bumping into the back of his throat. He keeps Jal there until he comes, then lets him up coughing and gasping for air, spunk dripping thickly down his chin. He isn't expecting the other man to duck down and lick it off, tongue hot and soft, rough whiskers scratching against his face as he sucks the last of it from Jal's lower lip. It's obscenely intimate, not something a stranger does, and his own poor, neglected cock aches fiercely at the wrongness of it.

"It's a shame," he grins against Jal's mouth, swiping his tongue across it one last time before letting go of his chin. "Maybe we should just let his friend go and keep him anyway."

"Now, now. He's done well so far." Their ringleader has been surprisingly quiet up until now, seemingly content to watch his fellow guards reduce their unwelcome guests to a quivering, incoherent mess. Fingertips trail along Jal's spine as he adds, "Let's give him one last test. Unless the other one wants to take this chance to duck out...?"

Cynric's voice is hoarse in the silence. "I'm not leaving without him."

"Suit yourself. Unless you just want another go at him. Is that it? It's not like he could stop you."

Cynric's objections are quickly muffled, and Jal swallows, hard, throat tender. He can't stop any of it. He can't stop himself from arching into the hand that smooths across the plane of his shoulders and comes to rest on the back of his neck, acting on pure instinct now, his body craving any form of pleasure it can find. A wave of magica washes over him, warm and unexpected, and he can't help that either, can't stop himself from moaning as all discomfort melts away from his sore jaw and battered nerves. The hand slips away, and soft lips brush against the shell of his ear. "I'm not going to make this easy for you, thief."

The anticipation is by far the worst part, and this guard, this man wields it like a weapon, skillful as any swordsman. Everyone else has fallen silent, and all Jal has is his own breathing and the blood pounding in his ears. The flagstone is solid beneath his palms and he clings to it like a lifeline as fingertips run over every inch of bare skin, caressing him with long, slow strokes, carefully avoiding his cock but nudging against his balls once or twice. It's maddening. He's trembling, sweat beading at his hairline and on his back by the time those cruel, clever fingers breech him.

He's still wet and open from being passed around earlier, and three slide in easily. Another moan slips out, louder this time, and he digs his teeth into his lower lip. He can hear the other guards chuckling. The man curls the tips of his fingers up and _presses,_ and constellations explode behind Jal's eyelids. 

"Please," he whispers. He doesn't know what he's asking for anymore. 

He's ignored, and it continues, slow and unrelenting. His tormentor clearly knows what he's doing, because he purposefully avoids that spot after that first contact, aside from a couple of teasing brushes. It's not enough - not anywhere _near_ enough - and before long he's panting in time with each dip, thrust, twist of those long fingers.

"If you want more, all you have to do is ask," the man tells him, sounding amused.

" _Please!_ " The fingers slip free and he arches his back, hips swaying, blindly seeking contact; hands curl around his hipbone and that first thrust drives the breath from his lungs.

"Give in, thief." One hand slips beneath him and teases, stroking his cock firmly for a moment before letting go, and he cries out, half-sobbing with frustration. "You're tired of fighting this. We can all see that." Jal shakes his head, but that voice is in his ears now, deep and rich as the earth below, threatening to bury him. "I'm going to fuck you until you scream for me. Like it or not, you're going to give it up, you're going to scream until you have no voice left."

His wrists and ankles are cuffed, he's hobbled by his own leathers so he can barely move, and in some ways, the slow pace the man has set is worse than the rest of it. There's a terrible familiarity in each controlled thrust, in the way he plays Jal's body like a lute, strumming him as they build towards a crescendo that threatens to rock the very foundation they kneel on, that threatens to _wreck_ him. A pause, a break in the eye of the storm, and then the man adjusts his stance and starts to move again. It comes faster now, harder with each thrust, until he's slamming into Jal and there's no more room to breathe because he's found that spot again and is nailing against it relentlessly until there's nothing but a pulsing white light behind Jal's eyelids and someone is screaming.

It's him, he realizes dimly a second later, he's the one screaming.

The man growls, guttural with triumph. "Beg me," he says, voice harsh now, "Go on, beg me, beg all of us and we'll keep you. _Gods,_ you'll make such a pretty fucktoy, we'll keep you and use you whenever we like. Take you apart in the middle of the market square if we want, where everyone can see you as a warning to the rest of your filthy guild and marvel at what a gorgeous little fuck you are. Now _beg - "_

"Please," Jal gasps over him almost instantly, long past caring about his remaining pride, "Please, I can't take it anymore, I'll do anything you want, just let me come!"

For a split second he's afraid that he won't be allowed, but then a callused hand wraps around his cock and with a few quick, firm strokes he can feel the heat pooling low and spreading outward, muscles tightening and it's turning into something much bigger than he's used to. It's too good, almost ugly in its bliss, and he whimpers, scrabbling helplessly at the floor as it rises up and crashes over him, and then he's gone, awash in it. He thinks he might see Aetherius.

Shadows swirl behind his eyelids, dizzying, his head swimming as he starts to come to after a moment. He's weak-limbed and shaking, hands opening and closing around nothing as his lips form wordless shapes, and tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. He's still shaking as his bonds are undone and his blindfold stripped away, and arms encircle him, massaging his wrists as someone whispers, "It's okay, we've got you, you're okay," and the tears start to trickle down his cheeks, unbidden. "You did so well, Jal, it's okay, we're all here - "

Jal twists around and buries his wet face against Enthir's throat, heart hammering frantically against his ribcage. "Tell me you love me," he demands between gulps of air, lashes wet and sticking together, and Enthir holds him tighter still, stroking his back soothingly.

"I love you," he says quietly, "So much. You're amazing. You were so good."

"Hey." Jal looks up blearily to see a worried Cynric squatting next to them, hair mussed and face sweaty. "Are you okay?" Jal nods, and even through the last of the tears, a smile blossoms on his face. He can't stop smiling suddenly.

"I'm - no, I'm great. It was just... intense."

"I'll say," Delvin says dryly from his seat against the wall. He hasn't even bothered to get dressed yet. "You damn near brought the walls down with that last bit." He grins. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"Good thing we did this while Azarath is out of town," Brynjolf says faintly. He's leaning on Delvin's shoulder, looking both exhausted and impressed. "He's not going to be happy if he finds out about this."

"Then he'd better not find out," Enthir says, and looks back at Jal. "Let's get you cleaned up." Someone hands over a damp rag, and he wipes Jal down tenderly, cleaning off his face and skin as best he can. Jal lets him, skin humming. Enthir inspects his handiwork once he's done, then sets the rag aside. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Dunno," Jal says, still grinning. He really does feel drunk now, his entire body buzzing. "Help me up and we'll find out." Cynric takes one arm, Enthir takes the other, and together they help him to his feet and get his clothing situated.

The others had cleared out a corner of the training room, moving the chests with the practice locks out of the way and filling it with a massive pile of furs and blankets. Jal practically melts onto it, and somehow they all manage to find a way to fit on it together. Enthir curls up at Jal's back, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist, and Cynric sprawls on his other side while Tonilia sits cross-legged so Jal can rest his head on her lap while she plays with his hair; Delvin flops down next to Cynric while Brynjolf stretches out cat-like, his head on Enthir's flank so he can rub Jal's calves affectionately, and Dirge hovers uncertainly on the fringe until Vex, irritated, tugs him down so she's squished between him and Delvin. There's nothing but silence for a while, save for everyone's breathing and the faint echoes of the empty cistern just outside the room.

"I love you all so much," Jal says dreamily. Enthir elbows him, and he amends, "Especially Enthir." Brynjolf snickers and gets his hair tugged for his trouble. "Hey, Tonilia."

"Hmm?"

"Where did you even get this many full guards' uniforms?" She just smirks down at him and looks pleased with herself.

"Trade secret. Sorry I couldn't get Vekel to join in, by the way. We're still working up to him seeing me with other men."

"It's okay. Really. All of you were more than enough." Jal turns his head slightly and nudges Cynric. "Thanks for playing along."

"Anytime," Cynric says, then realizes what he said and ducks his head, burying his face between Jal's shoulder blades. "I mean, no problem. Happy to help."

"I think you made him blush," Enthir drawls, and Brynjolf chuckles.

"Didn't know you were so modest, Cynric."

"Could've fooled me," Vex says, voice muffled from where she's pressed against Delvin's side, and Dirge props himself up on his elbow to look at the former jailbreaker.

"Cynric," he says solemnly, "we've all just seen your dick."

Jal, still floating high from the rush of it all, dissolves into laughter. Cynric smacks his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder, and when Delvin says casually, "What good, old-fashioned family bonding we're having," everyone else gives in and starts laughing too. Cynric punches Jal in the arm a couple more times for good measure, but he's cracking up too, and Jal lays tangled up with all of them, happy as he's ever been.

He nuzzles his face against Tonilia's calf and runs his hand lightly down Enthir's chest, not groping, just touching. He can't stop touching him, doesn't feel like they'll ever be close enough, even though Enthir was just inside him not even twenty minutes ago. The fingers of his other hand twine with the elf's, squeezing them lightly. Tonilia scratches his scalp and he purrs. Enthir squeezes back. Nobody seems keen to move, and so they all lay in a sweaty heap for a while longer until Enthir finally clears his throat. "Sorry to kick you all out, but I need a minute alone with Jal."

There's some good-natured grumbling as everyone untangles themselves and gets to their feet, yawning and stretching. Tonilia leans down and pecks Jal's cheek before she stands up, and Brynjolf squeezes his thigh; Cynric headbutts him affectionately and slaps his ass, Delvin and Dirge both ruffle him and clap him on the back, and even Vex presses her forehead to his for a moment with a slight smile. Then it's just Jal and Enthir wrapped around each other in the furs, alone in an empty room.

"Did you like it?" Enthir asks, and there's an anxious flicker in his eyes. "It was what you wanted, wasn't it?" Jal shakes his head and clasps the back of his neck and draws him in for a lingering kiss.

"Best birthday present ever."

"Good." Enthir looks relieved, but something is niggling at Jal. He frowns.

"What about you? Did you even get off?"

"Ah, well... no. But don't think I wasn't enjoying myself. It's just... difficult sometimes. With an audience." He smiles crookedly. "It's not important. Tonight was about you."

Jal rarely finds himself overwhelmed, but in that moment, he can't find the words. So he grabs Enthir and holds him close, sighing into him, kissing the delicate hollow of his throat, and by the way his lover's arms tighten around him, he knows Enthir knows what he means.

 

Azarath hates few places in Skyrim as much as he hates Dawnstar, and it's with a glad heart that he slips back into the Cistern though the graveyard entrance, cloak still heavy with melted snow. _What a godsforsaken wasteland._

Everything is as he left it, although the cistern is curiously empty, save for a few dozing recruits and Niruin idly firing arrows at a row of practice dummies. He catches Azarath's eye and nods as he nocks another arrow. Azarath hangs up his cloak on the stand behind his desk, bottom still dripping, and kicks off his wet boots. He's shuffling through the paperwork that's accumulated during his absence when someone steals up behind him and throws their arms around his middle. There's only one person on Nirn, living or dead, who would dare exhibit that level of familiarity, so he just snorts and leans into the embrace, a smile tugging at his lips. "Missed me, did you?"

"You were gone for forever," Jal complains jokingly against the back of his neck.

"Two weeks is hardly forever," Azarath says, but he turns around anyway and returns the hug, pressing their cheeks together briefly. Jal smells like leather and spice and _home,_ and he'd sorely missed him. 

"Right. It's fine, go gallivanting around Skyrim saving the world while I waste away down here." Jal pulls back, grinning. "How was Dawnstar?"

"Miserable. I never want to see another piece of horker jerky in my life." He props his hip against the desk and looks around again. "Where is everyone?"

"Jobs, mostly. Or in the Flagon. Karliah's escorting Enthir back to the College. I would have done it myself, but I wanted to be here when you got back."

Azarath blinks. "Enthir was here?" That was unusual. Jal typically traveled to see him, not the other way around. Jal's grin just grows wider, and he waggles his eyebrows. Azarath rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright. Spare me the details, please."

"I will, don't worry," Jal says as the Dragonborn turns back around, starting to rifle through the papers on his desk again. "Oh, and by the way, completely unrelated, but if anyone says anything to you about being locked out of the cistern last week, ignore them. It was for their own good." His voice grows fainter. "There was a... situation." Azarath whirls around, arms full of parchment, and sees him edging towards the door to the Flagon.

"What _kind_ of situation?"

"Skeever infestation," Jal says promptly, a strange twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry, no one was hurt. We handled it. Yes. Definitely. It was handled. They got in through a loose stone in the training room, can you believe it? Anyway, come have a drink when you're done here. Glad you're back!" He darts off, door slamming heavily behind him. Azarath shakes his head and turns back to the desk, setting aside the papers and opening the first in a stack of ledgers. Clearly they were going to have to beef up security measures.

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification's sake - Jal and Azarath are in a queerplatonic relationship. He and Enthir are in a romantic relationship. 
> 
> mimosasupernova.tumblr.com


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